


Any Means Necessary

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode: s03e16 Methos, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is set after Methos and Kalas' sword fight and swim in the Seine and takes off from there. Methos makes Kalas an offer of another kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Means Necessary

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta readers Sue G, Ann Stephens, and Juanita. Originally posted in 1996 under my other pseud, Shelley Wright.

Gasping for air, Methos pulled himself out of the Seine and flopped onto the bank. As he rolled onto his back, he looked up at the darkening sky and wondered idly how long he had been under water. As he raised his sword and lay it against his forehead, he closed his eyes reverently and said a silent prayer that he hadn't lost it.

Coughing and holding his chest, he sat up, spitting water back into the river. Death by drowning was one of the more unpleasant ways to die, and he  _hated_ water. When he felt he could catch a breath, he stood up and staggered to his right. Getting a tight grip on his broadsword, Methos started along the bank back toward his apartment.

A Buzz stopped him cold. "Who's there?" he called, still rasping from the water he had taken in. He coughed again. "Show yourself," he commanded.

Footsteps drew closer, and Methos whirled, his sword at the ready.

"Tsk, tsk. Such impatience for such an old man," Kalas called out as he approached.

"You again," Methos snarled, giving Kalas the once-over. "Coming back for another dip in the pool?"

"No. I'm here for your head." Kalas withdrew his sword, swinging it through the air until it sang. "And after yours, MacLeod's."

Methos laughed nastily. "You don't need me to get MacLeod. Surely you can beat him," he taunted.

"Of course I can," Kalas declared arrogantly, stepping closer. "But I think I'd like the head of the oldest living Immortal first. Call it -- my just desserts."

"Dessert is after the main meal," Methos reminded his opponent, getting a firmer grip on his broadsword. "If you want MacLeod, get him. Why waste time with me?"

Kalas laughed. "Why?  _Why_?" His eyes lit up with bloodlust, and his voice dropped to a seductive whisper. "If you were me, wouldn't you want to experience the Quickening of the oldest Immortal? Wouldn't you want to feel his power rushing through you, filling you completely?"

Methos' eyelids drooped sleepily. Kalas' words brought back a flood of memories, the hunger in his voice calling to a part of himself that Methos swore he would never let loose on the world again. But it stirred inside of him, awakening long-dead feelings. Filling him with purpose and giving his arms strength. His eyes opened fully as he shifted his position slightly, staring down his opponent.

"I  _know_ I would," Methos replied quietly, licking his lips. His eyes glittered with danger, danger he felt flowing through his veins.

Kalas drew back a bit at Methos' words, but held up his sword. "Then let's not waste time with idle chit-chat."

Their movements were slow, hampered by their soaked clothing, but still deadly. They were evenly matched, Kalas with his more recent experience, Methos calling on his considerable memories for new moves - and very old ones - to help him. Sparks flew from their meeting swords, flashes of light illuminating the walls around them. The fight continued down the riverbank, neither getting the upper hand for very long.

Switching tactics, Kalas advanced, striking viciously, Methos parrying his thrusts at the last possible second. Kalas swung low, and Methos caught his blade against the ground, holding it there with his broadsword.

"This is getting us nowhere. Neither of us is winning," Methos remarked, breathing heavily.

Kalas narrowed his eyes at the older Immortal. "What do you suggest? We just stop?" he gasped, fighting to control his ragged breathing.

Methos' face hardened as his eyes darkened. "If you like, I could take another swim," he suggested airily. His voice dropped to a deadly cadence as he continued, "Then, you will have no prize at all."

"Unacceptable!" Kalas raged.

"Well then, we have a problem, don't we?" Methos snapped sarcastically. After a few seconds, a knowing smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "I might have a solution."

"Good. Be a nice fellow and lean over so I can take your head," Kalas immediately answered, drawing his sword from under Methos'.

Methos' laugh echoed along the embankment, a dark, bemused, and terrifying sound. "I'm not stupid, Kalas. Don't treat me as such. No, what I had in mind was an exchange of sorts. Say, a certain Highlander's head instead of mine?"

"MacLeod," Kalas rasped, his interest belied in his tone. "How?"

Methos shrugged. "MacLeod's a trusting fool. All I had to do was say a few words to him, and now he is willing to die for me. If he thought I was in trouble, from say...you," Methos waved his sword vaguely in Kalas direction, "He'd try to get to you before you got to me. It's been his style all along."

Kalas actually lowered his defense, staring incredulously at the world's oldest Immortal. "You've been watching him. You've been reading his chronicles," he accused.

"So what if I have?" Methos smiled suddenly, a cruel, hard smile. "Maybe I'm trying to set him up for myself. You just don't know, do you?" His smile turned knowing, with a hint of smug superiority creeping into his expression.

Kalas stood stock-still, completely taken aback by Methos' words. "No, I don't." Kalas studied the Immortal before him, seeing him for who he really was; a man who had survived over five thousand years by any means necessary. And if it meant taking other Immortals out one by one, betraying one for another, he would do it. Kalas felt his heart pick up tempo, his body singing with Quickening, and he added in a whispered voice, "You're an arrogant bastard."

"Aren't we all?" Methos countered, his gaze steady on the younger Immortal.

Blue eyes studied hazel, each trying to read the other. "I don't trust you," Kalas announced after a short time. "How can I believe you'll set MacLeod up?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Methos countered, shrugging. "He's nothing to me. In fact, he could be a hindrance to me down the road. If you take him out now, he'll be out of my way. We both win."

Kalas again hesitated, tilting his head. "You don't want his Quickening?" he asked.

"Not worth it," Methos replied, his tone bored. "So do we have a deal, or do we continue to waste the evening?" he asked impatiently.

"I'll think about it." Kalas lowered his eyes to his sword, then attacked Methos in a flurry of movement, aiming for his body. Methos deflected the blows easily, getting in a few light jabs of his own.

"Think harder, Kalas," Methos warned, swinging around and taking a chunk out of Kalas' leg. "I can go all night," he added softly, his eyes alight with something Kalas couldn't identify.

One corner of Kalas' mouth curled up in a leer. He didn't doubt that. Even soaking wet, Methos was beginning to stir his Quickening in a way that hadn't happened in centuries. Being a monk had its rewards, after all. "So can I," he rasped. Favoring his cut leg, Kalas thrust his sword, faked a move, then drove Methos back as he tried to slice him in two.

"You son of a bitch!" Methos shouted, blocking Kalas' last move and bringing their swords together. "I'm willing to  _help_ you! You  _want_ MacLeod. He took something very valuable from you. He destroyed your gift. Isn't the taste of revenge sweeter than my conquest?"

Kalas regarded the Ancient Immortal with a wary eye, contemplating what Methos was telling him. They were both breathing hard by this point, and Kalas couldn't help but notice how his previous swim had plastered Methos' hair against his head. Water still ran down his angular face, now mingling with sweat.

"Why would you help me take his head? Why not do it yourself?"

Methos laughed harshly. "Because, what fun is it to take out a boyscout? Where's the  _challenge_ in that?" he taunted.

Kalas took that as the insult it was. He drew Methos closer, his eyes blazing. "It  _is_ a challenge, and you know it. You know how good he is...and you know how good I am."

"Oh, I know you both have potential..." Methos chuckled as Kalas' face flushed with anger.

"Tell me again why I shouldn't take your head now?" Kalas raged, his hands gripping the hilts of their swords tightly.

Methos expression changed again, his voice growing softer as he spoke. He played on the hope that Kalas was old enough to have heard of the technique he was about to reveal. Most older Immortals had the ability to share their Quickenings with others, but it was a learned art. "Because, there are other things you can do with a Quickening than just absorb it. Ever wonder what would happen if you could control it? Harness it? Use it in...certain situations?"

"What are you saying?" Kalas demanded.

Methos' innocent mask slipped back into place; and he was once again Adam Pierson, mild mannered Watcher. "Take my head and you'll never learn."

Kalas was turning purple with rage. But another part of him was aroused by the entire exchange. When he had decided to find Methos and take his head, he hadn't expected to come across an equal, and surely not one as damnably smart-assed as this. "You're more than a bastard. You're insane! You actually expect me to believe you? Just put down my sword and go take lessons on how to control my Quickening?"

Smirking, Methos answered quietly, "That is one of the reasons why you won't kill me, Kalas. I'm too good. Kill me, and who would you spar with? Verbally, that is," he added, glancing significantly to their swords still tangled between them.

Kalas was beside himself. He desperately wanted MacLeod. There was no guarantee that if he took Methos' head, he would be able to beat the Highlander. But, if Methos  _did_ know some tricks... "You want to help me get MacLeod? Fine. Tomorrow."

Methos clucked his tongue. "Now who's the impatient old man? Where's your sense of drama? Let MacLeod brood for awhile. If I don't show back up at my place, he will worry. And when he is worried, he is distracted. Distracted Immortals reveal their vulnerabilities." Methos' foot nudged Kalas', the distraction not quite enough to get Kalas to break Methos' gaze. Methos' expression showed his approval.

Kalas studied the ancient face before him, weighing his words. His voice was deadly calm as he replied, "If you are lying, I will inform every Immortal I meet that I know what Methos looks like," he swore. "You will no longer be a myth; you will no longer be safe. There will be no hiding place for you on this planet. We will all hunt you down. That is the cost of crossing me." Kalas released his tight hold on their swords, and Methos stepped back, chuckling darkly.

"Over-confidence does not become you, Kalas. You may want to work on that." Methos dropped his sarcastic edge, becoming deadly serious. "Call MacLeod, tell him you have me, and want an exchange. Tell him to meet you here, just after sunset. How about in two day's time? That should give him plenty of time to fret. And worry is such a strong incentive."

Kalas nodded slowly. "Yes, it is. So maybe you should start worrying yourself," he hissed, running a finger down the side of Methos' jaw. Waiting to see Methos' eyes widen, he then turned and walked crisply down the river bank.

Methos shivered, a coldness having nothing to do with his soaking wet clothes seeping through him. He had bought MacLeod a few days, but what of himself? He knew the game he was playing with Kalas was a dangerous one, but MacLeod had to be saved -- at all costs. Even if it meant stirring up buried memories. Feelings. Cravings.

Pulling his dripping coat around himself tighter, Methos staggered back to his apartment, hoping a few dozen beers would warm him up. But he had a nagging feeling it wouldn't be that easy.

~~~~~

After his first six-pack, Methos still felt cold. He was propped up against the side of his bed, a blanket wrapped around himself. His long legs were tucked to his chest, his arms balanced on his knees as he tossed another empty can into the corner. It had been a few hours after his meeting with Kalas, yet the knot of tension hadn't disappeared from his gut.

A Buzz filled Methos' head, and he rose quickly. Loosely tying a robe around himself, he reached for his sword tucked under the bed. Walking up the short flight of stairs to the door, he peered through the peephole cautiously. His eyes widened and he took a step back as he saw who was on the other side. He couldn't hide; his visitor already knew he was there. Unlocking the door and taking a step back, he called loudly, "Come in," pointing his sword straight at the door.

The door swung open, revealing the blond on the other side. "Methos," Kalas greeted the elder Immortal, stepping inside the apartment. His eyes slid over Methos' partially clad body, and his mouth turned up in the sneer Methos was beginning to loathe. "How nice of you to dress appropriately."

"Excuse me?" Methos snapped, his grip tightening on his broadsword.

Kalas took off one glove, pulling at each of the fingers with exaggerated care. Drawing out the tension, he removed his other glove the same way, then tucked them carefully into his coat pockets. By the time he turned to face Methos, the Ancient Immortal's knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword.

"Impatient, are we? I do admit, the wait has been most...pleasurable," Kalas hissed, stepping closer. He leaned back as Methos' sword touched his cloth-covered neck.

"Mind telling me what you're here for?" Methos demanded, irritation and warning equally clear in his tone.

"Are you going to go back on our deal, Methos?" Kalas' voice held a threat.

"What deal?" Methos snarled. "I said I'd give you MacLeod's head.  _That_ was the deal."

Kalas studied his fingernails, bored. "I'm tired of waiting. I'm here to collect my prize."

"What prize?" Methos asked as the knot of tension tightened in his chest.

"You said you knew how to control our Quickenings. Use them. Harness them. I've been thinking, Methos." A dark smile crossed Kalas' face. "I remember how it happens. I know exactly what you were offering." Methos paled slightly. Kalas shrugged minutely. "Or if you prefer," Kalas' sword was in his hand in a second, and he held it out toward Methos' neck, "I can take your Quickening the old-fashioned way."

Methos' eyes flashed with anger. He hated being manipulated, but even more so by this Immortal. There was something inherently evil about him, but there was something else, something very familiar to him... "I prefer the way that lets me keep my head,  _if_ you don't mind," Methos snapped.

"Very well, then." Kalas lowered his sword, cutting the ties of Methos' robe in the process. "Come here."

Methos had dressed for bed in his shorts, uncommon for him, but maybe Fate had given him a bit of warning of what was to come. As the cool air hit his bare chest, his nipples grew taunt, and he shivered. "I'd feel better if you put your sword over there," he nodded to a shelf near the door.

Kalas barely turned his head, keeping his eyes on Methos. "I think you'd feel better under me," he whispered, though he turned and placed his sword on the indicated shelf. He removed his coat as well, folding it carefully and placing it over his sword. "Now yours," he commented, indicating Methos' sword.

Reluctantly, Methos rested his sword against the wall.

Kalas' eyes swept Methos' form again as he remarked, "I hope you're ready for me."

"Never," Methos hissed under his breath, stomping down the stairs to the lower level.

"Not even a tour of your lovely home first?" Kalas quipped, descending the stairs. "I do so hate self-tours, don't you?"

"Kalas, this isn't the Louvre. This is still my home, and I'll thank you to at least treat _it_ with some respect," Methos growled, his voice low and biting.

Kalas turned at that, studying the ancient Immortal. "Do you think I don't respect you, Methos? Oh, but I do," he whispered, moving closer. Methos took a step back for every two that Kalas took forward, and soon he was backed against the bed. "I respect whatever means it took for you to live this long. To have avoided us for so many years...or has it been centuries now?" His voice had dropped down to a low timber, low and seductive, and Methos felt himself responding despite himself.

"It's been...almost two hundred years," Methos answered, swallowing hard. His breathing quickened as Kalas drew a finger along his neck, up to his ear, then along his jaw.

"Two hundred years without meeting one of us?" Kalas asked, keeping his voice low, the injury to his neck making it seem even more gravely. He leaned closer, suddenly gripping Methos' neck. "I bet you wish you had met me sooner."

Methos choked, his hands automatically coming up to throw off Kalas' hand. "Let go," he wheezed, struggling for a minute before he realized Kalas wasn't doing anything. The grip wasn't tight, just firm, and he could breathe. But he was uncomfortable. "Let me go," he demanded again.

"Very well." Kalas pushed Methos backwards, and he bounced unceremoniously on the bed, catching himself from falling off the edge. Methos rolled to a sitting position, keeping a wary eye on Kalas as he removed his sweater, then shirt.

"Not even going to buy me a drink first?" Methos asked sarcastically.

Kalas stepped out of his shoes, removing his pants in the process. When he was nude, he grabbed Methos' arm and pulled him close. "This isn't a date. This is a transaction. You do this, and I leave MacLeod alone."

Grey eyes locked on hazel in a battle of wills. Slowly, Methos nodded. "Agreed," he whispered. He let his body go lax, slumping down onto the sheets.

Kalas stretched out over the older Immortal, sliding his hand down the smooth chest. His fingers brushed the top of Methos' shorts, and he commanded, "Remove these."

Methos' hands immediately went to his own hips, pulling down his shorts slowly, bending his knees, and finally tossing them onto the floor. He lay back again, staring at Kalas through narrowed eyes. "Anything else,  _master_?"

Methos' head snapped to the right as Kalas struck his face, though he barely reacted otherwise. He turned his head back to Kalas, a grin spreading across his face. "I see. Well, you may want to brush up on your Roman history then. I'm very well-trained."

"We shall see," Kalas whispered as he leaned in and kissed Methos savagely.

Methos accepted the assault, imagining it was another's lips on his. Feeling another's broad, thick hands ravaging his body, a thick mane of dark brown hair cascading over his sensitized skin. He felt himself being drawn up, and shifted to accommodate. The scent of arousal filled his nostrils, and he opened his mouth, accepting the invasion. The cock was thick and he worried it with his tongue, pushing the foreskin back and sucking hard.

Methos' illusion of another was shattered as Kalas began raping his mouth. Choking, he clawed at Kalas' thighs, trying to slow him down. But Kalas continued, and Methos continued to gag, unable to get a breath. He felt unconsciousness creeping up on him, and dug his nails into Kalas' hips, pulling him back. He dimly heard a grunt as Kalas drove himself deeper, and Methos felt his senses leaving him. Burning liquid filled Methos' mouth and throat, and he choked, feeling himself slipping away . . .

Methos returned to life to find himself face down on the bed, his legs dangling over the edge, and Kalas pounding into him. Grimacing and forcing down a yelp of pain, Methos centered himself, going deep inside himself as he had done many times throughout the centuries. Methos felt his Quickening start to stir, and felt Kalas' answering. His legs were spread wider as Kalas rammed into him, nearing his climax. Their two Quickenings swirled around them, finally centering on Kalas. The Quickening poured into Kalas as Kalas poured into Methos.

Kalas collapsed on top of Methos, drawing in ragged gasps. "Nice to see you finally woke up," he commented between breaths. He pushed himself off of Methos and stood up.

"Nice of you to wait until I was  _alive_ ," Methos rasped, trying to haul himself completely on the bed. His arms were limp and his legs refused to move. "What did you  _do_ to me?" he demanded, feeling his back muscles seize up and spasm.

Kalas patted Methos' ass. "That's something you will never know, my  _old friend_." He started getting dressed with the same precision in which he undressed. Pulling on his pants, he tossed out, "By the way, you are a good fuck. I'm sure your Roman masters adored you."

"Fuck you," Methos snarled as he pulled himself onto the bed, biting back his groan of pain. His throat felt raw, and a quick assessment of his body revealed faint red marks on his wrists and finger-bruises on his thighs. Not as bad as he had feared...including the fact that Kalas hadn't taken his head.

Kalas stopped, laughing. "Fuck  _you_? My boy, what do you think I just did? But if you really enjoyed it, I suppose I'm up for another round." His tone was snide as he added, "Are you?"

Methos' glare was deadly, but Kalas was intent on pulling on his shirt, and missed it. Methos shifted on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. The feeling was returning to his legs, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh, just so you know, I will still go after MacLeod's head," Kalas remarked casually as he straightened his shirt.

Methos stared hard at him, then moved faster than he thought possible. Grabbing his extra sword from underneath the bed, he took a wide swing at Kalas, who dodged it easily.

"Get out of my house," Methos rasped. "I knew you couldn't be trusted. I should  _never_ have made the deal with you," he berated himself.

Kalas chuckled. "But you kept your end," he glanced to Methos' still nude body, "of the bargain quite nicely, Methos. Alas, I really must be off. Immortals to kill, worlds to destroy, you know; the usual," he finished with a hand wave.

"You fucking bastard," Methos growled, taking another swing at Kalas, this time cutting into Kalas' side.

"Merely a scratch," Kalas bowed, backing away. He blew a kiss to Methos, then ran up the stairs, snatching his coat and sword on his way out the door.

Grimacing, Methos rubbed at his neck. Standing unsteadily, he went to the kitchen and got himself a beer, downing it immediately. The sour taste of Kalas was still with him though, so he opened another and gulped it as well. When that didn't help, he slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor, staring numbly across his tiny kitchen.

After an hour or more, Methos scratched at his arms and legs, as if his skin was crawling...or Kalas was still touching him. Disgust coursed through him, and he stumbled into the bathroom to shower. He scrubbed at himself, unable to rid his body of Kalas' scent. Pounding the wall in frustration, he let the water cascade over him, soothing his sore muscles. How could he have trusted another Immortal with his life? How could have trusted Kalas, period? Momentary lapse of sanity, he supposed. Wouldn't be surprising after five thousand years of life. He thanked whatever Gods would listen that he still had his head. Now how was he going to keep MacLeod's attached to  _his_ body, and stop Kalas in the process?

The water was turning cold, and he shivered. A plan was forming in his mind, so he turned off the shower and dressed in the same clothes from earlier in the day. They were still damp; perfect.

Heading back to the Seine, Methos waited until he saw MacLeod walking underneath an archway, then made his move. Allowing MacLeod to sense him, he stepped out of the shadows. And attacked.

The End


End file.
